Chapter 6 - Healing Margaret
Over the next few weeks, the atmosphere inside the Los Angeles estate underwent a radical transformation.
I fired the entire household staff—every single butler, maid, and assistant who had stood by, laughed, or participated in Victoria’s cruelty toward my mother—and replaced them with a team of professional, compassionate caregivers and estate managers who treated Margaret with the absolute reverence she deserved.
I brought in top-tier medical specialists to evaluate my mother’s health. Years of grueling manual labor and silent suffering had taken a toll on her joints and heart. But with proper nutrition, physical therapy, and round-the-clock medical attention, the constant tremor in her hands began to ease, and color returned to her cheeks.
We spent our evenings not attending superficial charity galas or high-society cocktail parties, but sitting on the back patio, drinking herbal tea, and talking about the old days in Chicago—the tiny apartment, the frozen windows, the burnt toast, and the dreams we used to share when I was just a little boy doing homework by candlelight under a single 40-watt bulb.
“You know, Mom,” I said one evening as the golden California sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in vibrant shades of purple and amber. “I think it’s time we redid this entire backyard.”
Margaret looked up from her knitting, blinking in surprise. “Redid the backyard? Ethan, this landscaping cost a fortune when you bought the place.”
“It was designed by someone who didn’t know what a real garden looks like,” I smiled, setting my teacup down. “I want to tear out those imported foreign shrubs and the dog kennel. I want to build a massive, rolling vegetable and flower garden—just like the one you always dreamed of having when we lived in that cramped brick house back home. Real soil, real tomatoes, real roses.”
Margaret’s eyes lit up, a radiant, youthful smile breaking across her face that I hadn't seen in decades.
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“Oh, Ethan… could we really?” she whispered. “Tomatoes? And sweet peas?”
“We can plant whatever you want, Mom,” I laughed, wrapping my arm around her shoulders. “This is your home now. Every square inch of it.”
